


unreachable

by peternureyev



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, M/M, Sad, bagginshield, bilbo wants thorin back more than life, i need to stop with the angst, why did i do this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 18:06:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3497819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peternureyev/pseuds/peternureyev
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He spent most days watching the sky, or curled up in his armchair by the fireplace.</p>
<p>He never lit the wood though. The fire reminded him too much of Smaug, the way the vast dragon had scorched and burned, flames licking through Laketown and Erebor.</p>
<p>So the branches turned dusty as the days drew on, night to day and day to night, a constant cycle of memories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	unreachable

He was unreachable, so far away. A soul in another world. Thorin Oakenshield was dead, gone.

Bilbo would never look him in the eyes again, never feel that piercing blue gaze on him, never hear that soft voice say his name, feel the rub of his scratching beard.

Sometimes Bilbo would wake up in his too large bed in his empty home and imagine he could hear a deep voice singing, and the strum of a harp. He would sit bolt upright, fling off the covers and race to the door, forehead sticky with sweat.

_Thorin?_

But there was never anyone there. He would be staring at the starry skies of the Shire, the rolling green hills and sloping paths. But there was no one there. And Bilbo would look mutely out over the place he had once called home, and he would feel no recognition, no love.

Hobbiton was his home no longer. His home was on the winding dirt track, the endless road, with thirteen dwarves and one wizard. His home was wind in his hair, mud on his face. His home was a warm embrace, a shared blanket, a whispered endearment.

~

Folk would shake their heads at his wild appearance, mutter under their breath, say that he was odd, not the same.

And that he most certainly was not. Bilbo could never be the same. He was thinner, smarter, ruder and _different._ He had changed in body and in soul.

Once you have lived with dwarves for so long, your mannerisms change, and sometimes Bilbo would seem to slip into a different character. One who was rougher and more careless, his hair un-brushed, clothes untucked. For weeks after his return, Bilbo would stay in his room and not go out, no one saw him. Bag End held too many memories of the dwarves being happy and joyful. He couldn’t face the reality that he’d never see them again, that he’d never see Thorin smiling and laughing. Never see Thorin energized and excited, motivated by his longing for home. At the time, Bilbo had not understood, but now he did. He longed for Thorin with every fibre of his being, every waking moment was haunted by the sinking realisation that he could have saved him.

_He could have saved him, but he hadn’t._

That was what scared Bilbo the most. What had Thorin really thought in those last moments? Those fleeting seconds when he had lain on the ice, pulse racing, struggling for breath. Had he been sorry, angry, hopeful to live?

~

_I don’t want to live without you._

When Bilbo finally emerged from his isolation, he was mostly ignored, but a little bit feared. The strange hobbit who had disappeared and returned kitted out in sword and armour was to be avoided at all costs. And Bilbo was fine with that. He spent most days watching the sky, or curled up in his armchair by the fireplace.

He never lit the wood though. The fire reminded him too much of Smaug, the way the vast dragon had scorched and burned, flames licking through Laketown and Erebor.

So the branches turned dusty as the days drew on, night to day and day to night, a constant cycle of memories.

~

There were times when Bilbo cried all the time, sobs shaking his body and tears flowing down his face. When he screamed, and punched the wall, all self-control lost. Times when he threw up out of agony, and wept on his knees, rocking back and forth.

But the worst times were when he was silent. When he could not cry, his eyes bereft of tears. The times when the memories haunted him, when he lay prone on his bed, heart throbbing. Every part of him ached for the dwarf he’d once loved. He craved the feeling of a warm mass next to him, the feeling his small frame cuddled into furs. The light touch of a finger on his back, tracing out dwarven runes. Kisses on his neck and huskily sung lullabies. Warmth in the cold, spreading from the bottom of his toes to the tip of his head.

Those were the days when you noticed the most difference. He was gaunt and tired all the time, only living for the moments when he slept, forgetting for just a moment.

~

Things got better, yes, slightly. Bilbo was still stuck in depression, wallowing in self misery and hatred, still haunted by Thorin’s last words. But it got better, slightly.

Sometimes he would walk through the woods, singing quietly of far off places and far off people. His broken soul still ached, and in his heart he knew he would never leave the Shire.

He found his forgotten handkerchief. It had been stuck in the gate hinge at Bag End, fluttering in the breeze. Bilbo cried when he saw it, and mentally scolded himself for being sentimental. But it held such significance in his heart, a relic of a previous life when he had cared about lost handkerchiefs. Before Gandalf, before the dwarves, before Beorn, the trolls, the Wargs, before Azog and Ravenhill.

_Before he’d loved and lost._

~

Adopting Frodo nearly broke Bilbo, but in some ways it was a good thing. He had responsibility now, had to pull himself together, get a grip. They went on picnics, on walks, he wrote and sang and finally plucked up the courage to laugh and to tell tales, to smile at his nephew’s childish antics.

Life had a purpose, and he had no time to dwell on Erebor and the lack of visitors to Bag End.

But his last thoughts before he fell asleep were always of one person, and there was always that memory, that voice in the darkness, that strumming harp. There was always the awareness of what could have been. And whenever he looked up at the stars, Bilbo imagined there was one by his side, gazing at the heavens with him, clutching his hand.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first bagginshield fic.... I write a lot of headcanons for them but this is my first fic. Opinions?  
> Find me on tumblr eveningisgrey.tumblr.com


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